


Home At Last

by foreverdeen



Series: Scattered Minds [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-22 10:56:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreverdeen/pseuds/foreverdeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Mockingjay, Pre-Epilogue.<br/>Katniss has been back at District 12 for a while when Peeta returns from District 13.<br/>When Katniss hears, she  feels the urge to protect Peeta, partly to keep herself from going completely mad. But things seem to have turned upside down in Victor’s Village, and Katniss finds herself in a position she’d never thought she’d get into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home at last

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this story about a year ago and never even thought about publishing it until now. What I really want to capture in this story is Katniss's and Peeta's struggles on 'moving on' and starting a new life, in a way. There will be some drastic developments in this story (not at all trying to make you curious) and I see it as a real challenge to write them down. Hope you'll enjoy, and any kind of feedback is most welcome!

At night, the edges of reality seem to blur, like splatters of paint mangling on canvas. Facts twist into lies while one day seeps into the other, delivering nightmares so horrible they’d make your heart beat faster even on a bright and beautiful summer day. Because weirdly enough, most of the time nightmares don’t seem that scary anymore when you’re safe and sound, sitting outside in the sunshine. But unfortunately this doesn’t include my nightmares.  
When I wake up that night, screaming and thrashing, it takes a while for me to realize that the shadow in the corner isn’t a mutt. That the soft ticking noises on my window aren’t footsteps sneaking towards me. That the surface I am lying on isn’t a tree, nor a cave, nor grass. That I am actually just in my bedroom in my house in Victor’s Village, and not in some mutated arena made by Gamemakers. That I am safe. As safe as it will ever get.  
The only enemy I have to face for now is my mind, it has become my worst enemy after the war in Panem, drowning me in bloodcurdling images and scenarios day after day.

I can’t bring myself to sleep anymore after the nightmare that has awoken me this time, so I turn on the night lamp next to the bed and watch the darkness fade.  
The shadow that had looked like a mutt? It’s my stupid, capitol-made closet, way too fancy for my taste. The ticking noise? I can clearly see the tiny drops gliding down my window now: harmless rain, forming a tiny puddle on my windowsill.  
I push my head between my knees, grabbing my hair in frustration.  
“My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am eighteen years old. I defeated the Capitol. My sister is dead. My father is dead. My mother lives far away. I live in District 12, but it’s ruined. Peeta is alive, but he’s been hijacked by the Capitol. He’s in District 13. Haymitch lives here too, drunk as ever. Gale has moved to another District.”  
I repeat it three times, but the words don’t come through like they’re supposed to. They make no sense. As soon as one word leaves my mouth, the one before slips away, and so on. 

When I open my eyes again I’m surprised to see sunlight creeping through my windows, along with the sound of birds chirping, both announcing yet another empty day. I’d been able to drift off to sleep after all. I get up and stretched my aching body – tossing and turning all night hurts.  
A thin layer of sweat coats my skin, the only visible remain of my nightmare. I still don’t feel rested.  
I spent the entire night screaming and tangling myself in the blankets, haunted by the faces of the people that I loved, most of them dead.  
I walk down the stairs and notice Sae is making breakfast for me already.  
The past few weeks she’s been taking care of me. Every day, without fail, she shows up to cook for me. At first she tried to have conversations, but I didn’t answer so I guess she gave up.  
I’m very grateful for her, of course. Without her I certainly wouldn’t have made it this far. Even though I don’t eat much, the bit I do eat I get from her. I haven’t gotten up at all. I spend my days sleeping or just sitting around, staring outside, watching birds fly, feeling time pass by, ignoring phone calls from Doctor Aurelius and any kind of mail that arrives at my house, except some letters my mother sends me. I read them, but hardly ever reply.

Sae turns away from the stove with slight difficulty. Her age is probably starting to catch up, slowing down her once so smooth movements. ‘Good morning, Katniss.’ Her lips curl into a caring smile when she notices me.  
I guess the reason why she looks so happy to see me is because she’s feeling uncertain every morning when opening the door, hesitant to find out if I will be walking down the stairs that day. Scared to find out whether I am still breathing or not. A feeling of gratitude washes over me for this strong old lady. Yet, I don’t say a word. My fingers grasp around the edges of the kitchen chair instead. I wait silently, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.  
Sae finally breaks the silence. ‘I thought you’d be interested to hear the boy is back.’  
I look up and gaze at her. The boy?  
She pauses before answering my confused expression. ‘Peeta. I guess he came back yesterday, late at night. Are you going to visit him?’  
But I have already fled the room and bounced up the stairs.  
I rush to the window but freeze when I finally process this information: He is back? Here? In district 12? I know he had to stay in 13 for a bit longer, but how long had it been exactly?  
I squeeze my eyes shut and press my hands both at one side of my head.  
I silently force myself to think clearly. My mother sent me a letter yesterday, and she had written the date in the corner. The letter had taken two days to arrive, and between the date and my arrival in Victor’s Village had been 21 days. So Peeta had stayed behind for a little over three weeks.  
I’m surprised to find out that kind of math is still possible for my scattered brain.  
Scattered, is that the correct word to use to describe me now?  
Maybe useless is better. Or failure.  
Failure.  
I like that one best, it sums up my life flawlessly.  
A memory creeps back in my head. It’s from before I had heard about the Quarter Quell. Gale had just almost been beaten to death, and I had been busy wondering whether or not to flight from District 12. It was then that I had realized once again that it was my job to protect Prim. It was the one thing I had completely felt responsible for: keeping her and myself and my mother alive. But specifically Prim.  
She had been young, too young to take care of herself. So naturally, I had taken care of her.  
And I had failed miserably, because now she is dead.  
I can feel the word vibrate through my entire being, torturing me just as much as a physical hit. Dead.  
I start shaking, at first just softly, but eventually it becomes uncontrollable and I feel my breathing speed up, coming in raspy inhales and too little exhales. It’s as if every breath just floods through my lungs without giving the usual sense of relief. I feel the bones in my knees turn to liquid. I grab the windowsill tightly. Tears try to squeeze through my shut eyelids soundlessly and time loses its meaning while I just stand there, shaking. At first without making a sound, but after a while the sobs make their way up my throat mercilessly, and I give in to them. I simple can’t gather the strength to fight them.  
I feel the grasp on my windowsill loosen and slowly lower to the ground.  
Incoherent words escape my mouth in between the sobs, and if you’d asked me afterwards what I had said I wouldn’t know.  
I curl up on the hard, solid ground and make myself as tiny as possible. Maybe, just maybe, if I’m only small enough, I can shrink away from this cold life completely. But of course eventually my sobbing slows down, my breathing becomes regular and my tears run dry. Reality is there to slap me in the face as merciless as ever.  
When I finally get up, the only thing I want is a hot shower before going to Peeta to see how he’s coping. I probably smell awful, too.  
I slowly open the door that leads to the bathroom next to my room, feeling a bit like an intruder,  
since I haven’t been in this room for months. I sneak inside and close the door shut behind me, turn around and make an incoherent noise that sounds like something between a gasp for breath and a wounded animal; I am staring right into a mirror.  
That reflection, that can’t be me. That is not me. The girl’s hair is greasy, matted, unwashed for weeks. Dirt and coagulated blood is stuck to her cheeks. Dirty strains of tangled hair are glued to her face. Fury builds inside me, clawing its way through my mind. I notice the shift in the girl’s bloodshot eyes but still do not acknowledge it’s me. I don’t want to, because I feel like if I do, it’ll be irreversible. I strip the clothes off my body, hear it rip and tear everything apart.  
I glance at the mirror again, and my reflection is now naked too.  
My eyes widen in horror at the sight of myself. My body is a patchwork of raw skin, with scars neglectfully drawn all over it. From my left thigh all the way up my belly is the largest one, a disgustingly bright pink.  
I touch it anxiously and cringe when memories of war and destruction shoot through my being. The burns are the worst of all; red, raw and unsightly.  
There are still trails of coagulated blood on my skin.  
Who’s blood is it?  
Prim’s?  
No, that can’t be.  
Of course not.  
It’s my own blood, because it’s my body after all. But I don’t feel any relief at this realization.  
I have to take it off, is the only thought going through my mind. I start scratching the blood, completely in panic. Splinters of icy pain shoot up my nerves. I feel some of my little scars reopen and tiny drops of fresh, dark red blood seep through them. I softly whimper in pain.  
I catch myself in the mirror again, and for the first time I notice my face. My grey eyes have an expression of pure craziness. I’m an animal. Lost, alone, scared, desperate, wild, feral.  
This isn’t me anymore, not even at my worst times I have looked like this. Another panic attack overtakes me, and this time it takes longer for me to get back up.

The water relaxes my muscles and washes away all the dirt and blood, but not the memories and the feeling that I’m still not clean. I scrub my burned skin again and again and wash away everything that could have came with me from the Capitol. After I wash my hair two or three times, I turn off the shower and slip outside the damp cabin. I wrap myself in a towel, braid my hair again and go back to my room. I close my eyes and concentrate on slowing my breathing until it becomes regular. The warm air tickling my skin relaxes me and I slowly calm down.

It’s now midday, around twelve o’clock, and I stand before the window glancing at Peeta’s house again. Now that he has crept back inside my mind again he won’t leave and I become sick with worry.  
Is he still… hostile? Does he still hate me?  
I wouldn’t have admitted it in a thousand years, but I am scared. Scared, because maybe I’ll see that I have also lost the last person on this earth that cared about me. 

When I get downstairs again I notice Sae has already left. I feel bad for the way I had ignored her this morning, and all the mornings before, so I decide I’ll have a conversation with her first thing tomorrow.  
Walking up and down the hallway, gathering my clothes and boots, I realize for the first time how cold my house really looks. There’s not a single sign pointing out that this is an actual home to someone. It saddens me, and the fact that it saddens me annoys me, because does it really matter?  
Wrapping myself in a furry coat designed by Cinna, gloves I once got from Effie and my hunting boots, I realize it was dumb to be scared of going to Peeta. If there’s one person on this earth who has ever loved me, unconditionally, it’s definitely Peeta. So I shake off my fear, because I’ve had my daily portion of it already, and open the door.  
My first steps outdoors are hesitant. One foot floating in the air strangely before hitting the solid surface of the earth. Sunlight tickles my face and the wind fools with my carelessly braided down hair. I realize it doesn’t feel too bad. Maybe I’ve even missed being outside a bit, and if the reason for me being outside wasn’t secretly burdened with a slight hint of insecurity I would have definitely enjoyed the little journey. My step is slow but steady, eyes fixated on his house, look determined. But the closer I come to crossing the path to his house, the more I slow down. I start wondering why Peeta hasn’t come to visit me. Does this mean my fear might be true after all? Does Peeta hate me so much he can’t stand to look me in the eyes? But I shake off the insecurity once more. I’m really starting to annoy myself.  
So I look around instead, taking in Victor’s Village and its surroundings. The air is still thick with rain, filled with the wonderful smell of wet nature. Emotions I haven’t felt in so long start creeping their way op my head. I explore them, hesitantly, taking tiny steps like a child just learning to walk.  
A feeling of joy grows larger and larger. Even larger than the anxiety I felt this morning. Walking there, all alone, I silently decide for myself that I have found myself a new responsibility: keeping Peeta Mellark alive. And I can’t afford to fail this one. I can’t bear the thought.  
I am going to make my little sister proud.


	2. The Episode

As I stand at Peeta’s doorstep I count to ten and backwards before knocking on his door.  
Nothing happens.  
I knock again.  
Nothing. Fingers as cold as ice slowly tighten around my heart, making it hard to breathe.   
Fear boils up inside me. Where is Peeta? Why doesn’t he answer the door when I can clearly see smoke coming out of his chimney?   
Unwelcome sceneries take over my mind: Peeta dead. Peeta gone mad. Peeta hurting himself. Peeta murdered. Peeta abducted by the Capitol. Peeta… I shake my head furiously to clear my mind. Nothing is wrong with Peeta. Absolutely nothing. He’s probably asleep, or in the shower, or baking.   
The door swings open silently when I push it, and I rush in and close the door.   
I clear my throat. ‘Peeta?’ my voice cracks. It hasn’t been used in three weeks, maybe even a few days more. I cough multiple times, and try again. ‘Peeta?’ It feels strange to use my voice again, the sound of it even seeming a bit foreign.   
But the most alarming thing is that he doesn’t answer. I rush down the hallway and crash through the door, almost knocking it out of its hinges. Not my most brilliant move.  
You don’t knock someone’s door in when the person’s mind has been hijacked to hate you. When the person’s mind is adapted to think that you are to blame for all the tragedy he’s been through, all the loss he’s had to suffer and all the horrible memories he will have to drag with him for the rest of his life. But I can’t seem to think straight anymore. I brace myself for the worst as I enter his living room.  
His living room always seems to disorientate me, since it’s pretty much identical to mine. If you look closely, however, there are some notable differences. Where my house is cold, Peeta’s is warm and inviting. Peeta has mirrors, paintings, even flowers. It smells of fresh bread and a mixture of vanilla and cinnamon. Homesickness weighs down my stomach, a feeling I cannot explain.  
But no matter how nice his living room may seem, it’s empty. I pull at my braid until it hurts, trying to clear my mind from all the sick thoughts and images that flood my head like tracker jackers. Sometimes it seems like I’m the one who’s been hijacked. 

I stumble across the room and decided to give the kitchen a go. That’s Peeta’s favorite place after all, or at least it had been before the Capitol… I bite my lip harshly, unable to finish the thought as I feel the rage building and piling up inside me quickly.  
‘Peeta!’ I yell. I seem to have forgotten that I was going to be as gentle as possible. I’m determined to find him now, determined to feel his arms wrapped around me again. The arms that used to keep the nightmares away.  
I burst into his kitchen abruptly, and it takes a few seconds for me to take in what I see. 

His silhouette, dark and unclear, hovered over the countertop. His hands pressed against it, his back arched. There’s a broken plate on the ground, and fresh-baked cookies are spread all across the floor.  
I guess he probably dropped it there. The only sound is his irregular breathing, and my soft panting.   
For three seconds it’s like the world has stopped spinning, like time stands still. But then he spins around without warning, his eyes locking on mine immediately, and his face hardens visibly.  
My heart skips a beat. I feel my body stiffen, the hairs on my neck raising involuntary.   
I want to brace myself for the flight, but I find myself unable to move, unable to do anything but stand there while his stare burns through me, for some reason making me feel horribly naked.  
The lingering silence is too loud. I can feel the air pulsing. I don’t know what to make of his expression. Hatred? Recognition? Fear? I fight the pressure silently, and finally manage to find my lips back. I mouth the word once more, fear dripping from each letter: ‘Peeta?’   
‘Katniss…’ he hisses, ‘get out of here. Now.’   
Pieces fall together quickly. He’s having an episode. I know I should leave, because I could be in danger, but my body moves on its own now. I raise my hands, palms in his direction, holding them out to show him I don’t have any twisted intentions.   
My voice trembles, and the words sound a whole lot braver than how I actually feel when I whisper: ‘I’m not going anywhere. Episode or not. I don’t care about them. I needed to see you.’   
I realize I sound a bit like my old self again, stubborn and stupid. I’ve used the wrong words again, saying them too carelessly and heedlessly, so I quickly add: ‘I needed to be sure that you were okay!’   
I beg him with my eyes, waiting for his expression to soften in recognition. Waiting for him to erase the distance between us and for him to wrap his arms around me, his body to relax. But he doesn’t do any of those things. My reassuring smile fades and I try not to pay attention to my trembling body.  
‘How,’ he says through gritted teeth, ‘how on earth can I be okay when you’re the one who did this to me? This!’ he flings his arms around like crazy, pointing out the dark, empty house, and the silence only thickens his words.   
‘But… that’s not my… that’s not my fault.’ my lower lip trembles, I desperately hold back the tears because I don’t want to cry, this simply isn’t the time to fall apart. I need to put him back together instead. This is, for once, not about me.  
‘Then who’s is it?’ he barks. This doesn’t sound like Peeta Mellark at all. Peeta Mellark could never scare me, and he would never want to. But now he does, and I stumble backwards, every fiber in my body shaking with fear. This isn’t Peeta, and if this isn’t Peeta, he’s out of my knowledge. This boy, I don’t know what he’s capable of. He can kill me within seconds, without blinking an eye, and I realize that all too well.   
‘The Capitol did this to you, Peeta. Don’t you remember? Please, think.’ As I’m saying this I slowly walk over to him, grabbing his hands when I’m close enough. I’m probably grasping his hands way too tightly, but I’m desperate in my attempt to find a way to bring my old Peeta back. The Peeta that I miss so dearly, my dandelion in the spring.   
I had found myself tangled in blankets and covered in sweat every morning, streaks of hot tears on my cheeks. I can’t fight the nightmares alone. I need him back. Together we stand a better chance.  
Tears fill my eyes and make my sight blurry. I blink them away.  
His body tenses immediately at my touch, and he growls. ‘KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF OF ME!’  
I look him in the eyes, startled. The way he says it rips my heart apart once again. He really does despise me. One tear rolls down my cheek but he doesn’t seem to care at all.   
His hands, stronger than usual now that nothing is holding him back, pull viciously hard on my fingers, as if they are twigs, and I lose my grip when the sharp pain reaches my fuzzed brain.   
It all happens so fast, I have no time to process all of it. But I do process that he now actually seems to be coming after me.  
‘Please, Peeta. I know you don’t want to hurt me. You’re not yourself.’ As the words leave my lips I try to believe them myself, but the attempt is too feeble, too breakable. I’m too poisoned with fear. He’s stronger than usual, stronger than me. And for all I know he wants to destroy me right now.  
But since I know the real Peeta, my Peeta, is still in there, I know there must be a way to reach him.  
I force myself to think clearly for the millionth time that day, to dig into my misty brain to find a solution. 

The solution shoots through my head so sudden, I know I have to do this. It’s the only chance for me to pull him back, and the only idea I have. So I lean on my toes and kiss his lips softly, lifting the corners of my lips briefly as I pull back. I can only hope I have soothed him. But as soon as I look in his eyes I know I have failed. I might have made it even worse, because his eyes are now also filled with disgust.   
‘What in the world do you think you’re doing?’ He wipes his mouth clean with his hands like a little kid, making my cheeks flush in embarrassment.  
I start backing away from him, but as soon as I take one step backwards, he takes one step forwards and he slowly walks towards me. I feel my heart rate speed up, cold sweat gathering in my palms.  
‘Don’t.’ I whisper. One last attempt to calm him. But it seems like he enjoys the fear that is evident on my face.  
Suddenly my foot makes contact with the plate on the ground, causing my feet to come out from under me and I crash face-first into the linoleum floor. I instinctively try to protect my face with my arms, squeezing my eyes shut. This is the end. After all I’ve been through, Peeta Mellark is the last person on earth I’d think would kill me.   
I do not have the strength to fight him. Maybe it will be over quick. Maybe I can finally find some peace. But a deep growl coming from Peeta’s throat breaks my stream of thought. That growl scares me more than any attack could. Peeta Mellark, my Peeta Mellark, would never make that sound. Not ever. 

He really is going to kill me.

The only person that has ever loved me unconditionally, no matter how many times I had hurt him, is now coming after me. He’s going to kill me with the same hands he used to protect me with. The same hands he used to touch me with. It hits me that I do not want him to kill me, because this episode won’t last forever. And how can he live with himself when he wakes up and sees my body lifeless on the ground, aware of the fact that he’s the one who’s responsible for it? He can’t.   
So I scramble up and push myself onto my feet again.  
I am faster than him, so I may have a chance to make my way out, then return when his episode is over. I run around the kitchen table, trying to get back to the door to the living room.

I experience one second of relief when I really do seem to be faster than him, before a hand locks around my wrist.


End file.
